


buzzcut season

by drinkteawithme



Category: Violetta (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M, but this is angst central, fr he's so supportive of angie always, pablo and angie are the best violetta ship and you won't change my mind, pablo deserves the entire world, you have my apologies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:02:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25498066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drinkteawithme/pseuds/drinkteawithme
Summary: “You’re in love with him,” he says, and it’s not a question. “You love him,” he says, and it’s a statement. (It’s wrong, he’s wrong.)The word breaks out of her throat, desperate and needing him to understand, needing him to stop looking at her like that, like she’s everything and nothing all at once. “No,” and it’s a whimper, it’s a prayer, it’s broken in half. Please, she thinks, please Pablo.\\ i was listening to buzzcut season by lorde, feeling a lot feelings, and, well, i had angie and pablo on my mind. pablo and angie's breakup from season one, reimagined.
Relationships: Pablo Galindo/Angie Carrarà
Comments: 8
Kudos: 17





	buzzcut season

**Author's Note:**

> for reference: bold italics are the lyrics of the song

**_and i’ll never go home again_ **

She calls him for the tenth time and her heart’s in her throat. It’s pounding, and every time it expands on a beat, she chokes. Her eyes are red from crying, her lip raw because, apparently, biting it is a nervous habit she’s picked up - from him, she knows. _He_ does that when he’s nervous or stressed, she never did, until now.

“Hello. Hello, Pablo. I really need to explain,” she begs into the phone, a little hysteria edging into her voice because she _knows_. She knows and she doesn’t want to lose him, even if she does deserve it. “Please, answer the phone won’t you?” she asks his voicemail, and her eyes are welling with tears again. “I really need to explain, it’s not what you think. I’ve left you a thousand messages. I don’t know… when you hear this message call me, or text me, or whatever.” Deep breath. “Okay.”

She hangs up the phone for the tenth time, and her heart starts to crack.

**_place the call, feel it start_ **

She turns for the millionth time, wanting him to be there, not at the same time. He’s there. “Pablo,” she gasps, all at once relieved and in pieces. She knows. “I just called you. Didn’t you hear me calling just now?”

She’s looking at her phone. If she looks at him, she’ll drown. His eyes are red, his lip raw, his eyes are welling with tears. “I’ve left you like ten messages,” she tells him, almost manic, as if he didn’t know. He knows.

He’s nodding. “Yeah…” is what he says instead of: “You hurt me, Angie.” He doesn’t look her in the eye when he tells her that, “I heard your messages, yeah.”

She wants to turn around, wants him not to be there, needs him _to_ be there.

**_favourite friend_ **

She loves him, she does. She always will.

“Well then, why didn’t you answer me?” she questions, even though she knows. She’s hurting, eyes starting to sting again, heart starting to splinter again. He’s hurting, crying; he’s there. “I need to tell you what really happened. It’s not what you think,” she says, and she needs him to believe her, needs him to know that it’s true, it is. She loves him. “I actually kissed Germàn because Violetta was coming, and I didn’t want him to see her. It’s not because—”

She stops. She wants to say: “It’s not because I love him, it’s not because I don’t love you. I do love you, so much it hurts, so much it scares me. So much I do stupid things because my heart’s too used to getting hurt and it doesn’t want to be hurt by you, too - it can’t can’t take it.” She doesn’t say anything.

“Not because you’re in love with him?” Pablo supplies, and he looks so resigned that her heart’s starting all over again, clawing its way out of its cage to him, for him, always him. He looks hollow. She feels like she has nothing left and never will again. She can’t say no, can’t tell him he’s wrong this time; even though he’s never wrong, this time he _is_. She’s frozen. “You can’t deny it, Angie,” he tells her, and he’s right, but not for the reasons he thinks.

She loves _him_ , she does.

**_and nothing’s wrong, when nothing’s true_ **

She feels like she’s going to collapse at any moment under the weight of his gaze. He looks like he’s about to come apart at the seams, about to break. She feels like she is, too.

“You’re in love with him,” he says, and it’s not a question. “You love him,” he says, and it’s a statement. (It’s wrong, he’s _wrong_.)

The word breaks out of her throat, desperate and needing him to understand, needing him to stop looking at her like that, like she’s everything and nothing all at once. “No,” and it’s a whimper, it’s a prayer, it’s broken in half. Please, she thinks, please Pablo.

He takes a half step back and she just wants him close to her again, close to her always. He’s never been further away. “What do you mean no?” He asks, and she feels her foundations start to shake. _No_ , she repeats in her head: no, no, no. “We’re grown-ups, Angie, I think we can openly discuss this. I mean, don’t you really think so?”

No, no, no.

She feels like she’s going to collapse at any moment under the weight of his hurt.

**_i live in a hologram with you_ **

Her eyes are red and soaked in tears, eyesight blurry and heart so heavy it could drop into her lungs and stay there until she can’t breathe anymore.

“I don’t want to lose you,” she says, it’s raw and honest and rough, it’s the first time she’s looked him in the eye since he walked into the room. She doesn’t want to lose him, can’t lose him. Who is she without him? She wraps her arms around herself to try and hold the pieces of her together.

His eyes soften at the edges and harden everywhere else, at once ready to give in and ready to fight. He looks exhausted. “No, me neither,” he says. A tear nearly edges its way out, he blinks it away. “But at least we can talk about this, right?”

Wrong, she thinks, if we talk about this and you leave, I might die.

She nods. “You know I like you very much,” are the words that fall from her lips, “You know I’m so in love with you it makes me dizzy,” are the words she wants to say but doesn’t. He looks like he’s as torn to pieces as her, and all she wants to do is patch all the cracks in his heart and cradle it so she never hurts him again. She can’t.

“You like me, okay,” he agrees, a little fire in his eyes, a spark in him that wants to stop being sad and start being angry. She doesn’t blame him. The fire dies out, tamped down. “I don’t doubt that, but, you’re in love with him.”

Her eyes are red and soaked in tears, and his resignation and heartbreak isn’t something she sees through blurry vision, but something that hits her square in the chest.

**_we’re all the things we do for fun_ **

He looks at her like she’s his world, and like she’s causing him a world of hurt.

She deflates, shoulders dropping, breath escaping, all of her drooping. “I’m only an excuse for your not being with him,” he says, and he’s crying again, “and I really don’t like to play that part.”

She’s shaking her head while he’s talking, when he’s finished, as she speaks. She tells him, “But you know it’s not like that,” because it’s true and she needs him to know that. He’s wrong, he’s wrong, he’s wrong. She loves him. No. “Please don’t say that,” she begs, it’s not true, it’s not; she’s crying. “It’s not like that.”

“Oh, Angie, you’re always—”

“It’s not,” she insists. Please, Pablo.

He looks at her like she’s everything, and like everything is falling apart before his eyes.

**_and i’ll breathe, and it goes_ **

She’s going to crumble any second. He scoffs, “You didn’t even notice me until you saw Germàn,” but it isn’t true. She’s known him for years, and noticed him every single second. He’s supportive, and kind, and he jokes with her mother because he’s Pablo. He’s hers, and she’s his. She’s his. “Now when he shows up,” he continues, “you start looking at me differently?” 

No, she looks at him the same. He’s Pablo, her Pablo, and she looks at him like he’s hung the moon and the stars and everything good in the world is contained within him. She looks at him with tears shining in her eyes and her heart on her sleeve and she says nothing.

“Look, Angie, I know you don’t mean to do it, but evidently there’s a strange part of you that thinks that being with me will help stop the feelings that you’ve always had for Germàn.” _No_. “It’s impossible to force someone to feel something she doesn’t feel.”

She loves him.

He shakes his head, he swallows, he steels himself; she watches and tries not to reach out. “I think it’s best that we break up, Angie.” It’s quick, it’s like ripping off the band aid but infinitely more painful. It’s sure, it doesn’t leave any room for question or argument.

She’s going to crumble any second.

**_play along_ **

He’s certain that he needs distance. He’s certain that he’s right, but when her entire body jerks and her eyes widen and she begs him, “No, no, no.” Suddenly, he feels like he isn’t certain about anything.

“Talk to Germàn,” he instructs, detached, and yet attached, unable to separate himself from her.

She’s going to fall apart. “Please, no,” she pleads, sobs tightening in her chest. She needs him, she can’t lose him.

“Talk to him,” Pablo repeats. “Talk to him,” he says again, because anything else he says will be: “I love you, Angie; you’re everything, Angie; please don’t hurt, Angie, it’s killing me.” But instead, he forces out, “Tell him the truth,” even though he isn’t sure what the truth even is, anymore. “Tell him how you feel.”

She doesn’t see a way out. It’s dark, this world without Pablo, and he’s still stood in front of her, in reach and yet so far away she feels like she’ll never find her way back. “And how do you suggest I do that?” She asks, because, well, if there’s anything she’s gotten good at over the past few months, it’s lying.

He’s breaking. He wants to be strong. “The same way I’m telling you now. If he loves you, he’ll forgive you, he’ll understand,” he says, like it’s that simple. Maybe it is. He only says it because he knows from experience: he loves her, he forgives her, he understands. Angie is everything.

He’s certain he needs distance, he’s certain that he’s right, and that he’s wrong.

**_make-believe, it’s hyperreal_ **

She’s toying with her own feelings, and he’s toying with his. It’s a vicious game, they’re playing, and they’re both hurting because of it. Irreparable.

“You don’t know how he is,” she says, she’s lying. He does, and she doesn’t feel anything for Germàn, not like that, not anymore. She’s lying. He believes her, forgives her, understands.

He says, “Just try, maybe he’ll surprise you.” She cries.

“Pablo…” she pleads, and there’s an entire universe worth of pain interwoven with the word, with his name, it hurts, but she loves him. It hurts, but she will hurt for him, always, gladly, if it saves him from pain. He’s hurting, and she’s causing him, and she doesn’t know how to make it stop. She’s crying. He thinks he knows. “Don’t…” she begs.

He steps towards her, so close she can smell the cologne he always wears, the comforting scent of him wrapping itself around her heart and squeezing so hard she can’t breathe.

He looks her in the eye, hand on her cheek, thumb moving absently across her skin like it has a million times before. “I love you,” he says, and he sounds more sure of this than anything she’s ever heard him say, “with all my being.” He’s breaking, voice breaking, eyes hidden behind a wall of tears, smooth cheeks split in two by tear tracks. “I want you happy.”

She wants to tell him that she can’t be happy without him, but she can’t.

She’s toying with her own feelings, and she’s toying with his.

**_but i live in a hologram with you_ **

She feels her heart in her chest, so hollow it’s starting to cave in.

His hand, the one so familiar to her, drops from her cheek, the callouses on his thumb borne from years of playing the guitar (often for her, often at night, under soft, warm, yellow light as they sing together) skimming her lip. He turns, and she hears the quiver in the breath he sucks in, and she wants to reach for him, but she can’t.

He leaves.

She drops to the ground, heard buried in her hands, sobs bursting out of her throat, raw and guttural and enough to hurt. She feels nothing; she feels everything. Her head pounds, and her heart twists, and it starts to crumble. She feels sick.

She wants him to come back, wants him to round the corner again, to come in, to pick her up off the floor, put his hand on the back of her head as he holds her again. She wants him to whisper that it’s okay, he understands, he knows she loves him, he’s sorry he didn’t see it before, he’ll hold her heart and protect it, he won’t hurt it, he promises. She wants him back, wants his shirts early in the morning, wants him to scold her for lying to Violetta, or for being distracted and late for a class.

“I love you, Pablo,” she whispers, but he’s gone.

**Author's Note:**

> this is the result of a lot of repressed feelings, and a whole lot of bitterness that pablo and angie don't get the happily ever after with each other that they deserved. in the words of james acaster: started making it, had a breakdown, bon appetit
> 
> (also worth noting that i: one, wrote this at 1am; two, did not check this for errors at all; and three, am pretty much banking on very few, if anybody, reading this, and allowing this to just be a rant to the void, but i guess if you did happen upon this, leave a kudos and/or comment to bring a little joy?)


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